


Absinthe

by WagnerLiszt1859



Category: Composer - Fandom, Composers - Fandom, Franz Liszt - Fandom, Liszt - Fandom, Richard Wagner - Fandom, Romance - Fandom, Wagner - Fandom, suicide - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 08:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WagnerLiszt1859/pseuds/WagnerLiszt1859
Summary: In 1885, Liszt tries to revise his La Lugubre Gondola, but is stopped because he mourns greatly over Wagner's death.





	Absinthe

**Author's Note:**

> Wagner and Liszt were actually in a romantic relationship with each other (1848-1883), and I often find it very sad and frustrating that a century's worth of homophobia has covered up the relationship to the point of making people believe that they really hated each other, when in reality, they loved each other to no end, to the very last breaths that they took. Many works by them were really inspired by their relationship: Lohengrin, Tristan Und Isolde, The Ring Cycle, Parsifal, Orpheus, The Dante Symphony, and more. 
> 
> Wagner once wrote to Liszt, saying in regards to Tristan Und Isolde, "Could I only be with you! That, you know, is the burden of my song."
> 
> Before leaving Venice in January of 1883, Wagner walked Liszt out to the gondola, so Liszt could go to the train station. Before Wagner could even take a couple steps away, he turned impulsively and pulled Liszt into a last, emotional embrace. Liszt then boarded the gondola, and watched each other disappear off into the distance. They never saw each other again.
> 
> It's also important to talk about the pains Liszt endured following Wagner's death. Upon hearing the news, he whispered to himself, "He today, I tomorrow." Liszt seriously considered suicide, but the one thing that held him back was the fear of going to Hell. He started to develop insomnia, major depression and anxiety, fears, superstitions, and bad omens. One of the fears, most prominently being his growing fear of the number 13, which was the day that Wagner died (February 13th, 1883). He believed that spilling your wine glass was a bad omen for disaster, and that the only way to turn it into a good omen was by apologizing (see Alan Walker's Final Years). Finally, he developed habits. One of them being him waking up at 5:00 AM.
> 
> This short story is the summary of all the pains Franz Liszt had to endure the last three years of his life without his lover Richard Wagner.

 

    In the dead of night, what was only made visible by the moonlight, shining through the glass of the windows, in this peculiar surrounding, was the luxurious bed, and the vivid expression of the man that was below him. The dominant had thought that this great warmth that he was experiencing was from the covers that halfway hugged him, his heat bouncing off of the inside, nowhere to leave to... But, no... He realized that the warmth that he had experienced was coming from the submissive below him, glancing at him with bright blue eyes; eyes that had grabbed his heart and soul, and held them close. The man recognized that look from anywhere:

_Pure Love..._

_Such hungry eyes,_

_begging for more,_

_begging for mercy..._

The man below him wrapped his arms, as to hold onto him, around his prince's neck, which further embraced them both with warmth. The green-eyed man's hands felt the figure of his body, reaching lower, grabbing the point of interest to him... He took something of his own, then... Finally moved inside, causing the man below him to shut his eyes, move his head back, and emit a groan of pain and relief; he moved his hand up to run his fingers through the invader's long hair. He seemed to marvel at it, as he finally opened his eyes, hungry to get once more a glance, and to look at that feature. He cut out of it, and held the invader's body closer; as close as Mother Nature would allow it, allowing the long-haired man to smell the perfumed fragrance of the smaller.

The smallest cry had sounded when he slowly started moving, but it was very short-lived; eventually, it was replaced by moans, and sighs of pure pleasure, and heavy breaths.

The giver of these pleasures needed to have a look at his lover's face, just to give him the confirmation that these sounds were true. Instead, he found tears forming, pooling, and falling from those blue orbs.

 _"Franz,"_  Wagner shakily and quietly cried out,  _"You're hurting me."_

The old man had awakened in a yelp, feeling fear creep all around him; fear clutching at his heart. He held his chest with the palm of his hand, as to keep the emotionally pounding organ to himself. He had to remind himself:

_It's a dream..._

His shallow breaths starting to lessen:

_It's a dream..._

_It's a dream..._

Liszt cried to himself, remembering that his dearest lover was dead.

He, with his large shaking hands, had reached over to turn the gas lamp on, searching all around his nightstand, pale at the face, red in the eyes, to look for something to soothe his terrors. He squinted, trying to see through his tears with his deteriorating eyesight; it was a good thing that he still managed to compose, but at this rate, he'd be blind in a year! He felt the cigar box, and sighed a sound of slight relief. He opened the wooden thing, feeling so weak that he thought that, at any moment, he could drop it! But, no, his will kept him from doing so- should it even be called "will"? He couldn't even will himself to stop smoking! He grabbed the rolled tobacco, and went on to grab the lighter, and within a couple clicks, his cigar was lit, in which, without a second thought, he breathed in the tainted air, like a diver catching his breath. His body starting to relax, he exhaled it out.

With the smoke now occupying the air around him and disappearing, he gazed at his clock, holding it closer to his face...

"Four-thirty," He read out loud. 4:30 AM? About thirty minutes earlier than he usually woke up, but he didn't mind. He had, in the past couple years, grown accustomed to waking up so early in the morning. People never understood why... Maybe it was the thought of a sort of routine that relaxed him? Maybe he needed the extra time to think? Who knew?

He turned the alarm off, now getting out of bed. He wouldn't lie, he was quite tired, due to the fact that he was only able to get, at most, three hours of sleep, but he knew that it was pointless to just go back to sleep, since he knew that he could slumber no more. With one hand, his fingers curled, he wiped the tears from his reddening eyes, in a picking fashion, and went over to the dresser to dress himself: a cassock. The usual.

Walking across the house, he grabbed himself a bottle of wine and a wine glass in the kitchen, and went on to go to the piano room. He kept the cigar in his mouth as he placed the glass bottle on the piano, looking through various compositions and transcriptions that he had written over the years, with the feminine shaped glass in his hand. His fingers wrapped around the waist, around the breast of the glass, as if it was a miniature concubine. He grabbed the less beautiful bottle, pulled the cork, and poured himself some wine, placing his cigar in the ash tray, he gulped down the red liquid in one sitting, immediately pouring himself another, in which he finished halfway before setting it down.

Once more, he looked through, and on the top of one of the piles was  _La Lugubre Gondola..._ He took a good look at it, and once more started to tear up. He had had visions of Wagner's death two months prior to his real death. He didn't know if The Lord was preparing him for the trial, or just torturing him. He remembered seeing the funeral gondolas floating down the streets of Venice, and how he had imagined that Wagner would soon be in one. The thought had scared him, and he obviously had wished that it would never come true, but he knew, at the time, that Wagner was having heart difficulties... And now he was dead. He held the manuscript in his hand, and set it up, sitting down at the seat of the piano.

 _"Do you have to leave now?"_ The German complained, fearful of separating once more from the Hungarian.

The taller glanced down, seeing the bewildered face of Wagner, his smaller hands clutching onto his shoulders, not wanting to let him go. "W-Well," Liszt carefully started, "I can't stay here much longer, and you know the reasons..." The blue-eyed man looked down in pure disappointment. He tried to keep himself from looking into those green fields, because he knew that if he did, he would have probably collapsed right on the spot and started crying. He had to keep himself together.

The bell of the train station had sounded, making the situation feel much more real to them both.  _Time was running out..._ They walked their way down to the gondola, suitcases in Liszt's hands, exchanging some words as well. At this point in time, it was time for the two to part, but it felt different from the other times... This felt more painful. Much more painful. They said their goodbyes, the German turning to walk away, but he had only taken a couple steps before he had felt like it was too much to part like this. He, without warning, had thrown himself into the taller man's arms, causing the suitcases to fall; embracing him as tightly as he could, hiding his face in his chest, shaking profusely. The embrace, without another word, was immediately requited, just as, or more, powerfully. They stood there, the two lost in each other's arms, lost in their emotions. They didn't want to leave each other, but now they had to... The bell sounded again.

 _"Franz,"_ Wagner cried, tears forming,  _"Please don't leave me again... I can't take it anymore."_ Liszt wouldn't be able to deny that some tears of his own had fallen, when he saw just how grieved Wagner was, and he didn't care if the man on the gondola had even seen this or not; the thought had actually never reached his mind! He titled the shaken man's head up, to make it visible, and pressed his lips against his, passionately, a raging fire forming in both of their hearts.

 _"Richard, I have loved no one like I have loved you,"_ Those words broke the dam, causing the smaller to breakdown, tears falling without restraint. They held each other again, just as before, but with the taller placing kisses on his forehead, which was lined with white hair.

They then parted, so reluctantly, giving off the feeling that they both had been orphaned. It was almost a miracle that the German didn't fall to his knees when the Hungarian had boarded the gondola. As the bell sounded once more, the man on the gondola started rowing, distancing the two from one another.

_They grew farther apart,_

_their gazes never breaking_

_from their eyes,_

_as the gondola floated down,_

_parting the two lovers,_

_for the rest of their lives_

Liszt ended the piece... It didn't sound well enough. He needed- not wanted-  **needed**  to improve it. He went off into a daze, staring at the paper, no thought in particular coming to mind. With nothing in his eyes, he reached for his half-finished glass of wine, but he was too aggressive-  _CRASH!_ He flinched at the sound, seeing the wine spread across the floor, the glass shattered- and if one were to walk in without shoes, they might get a cut without noticing a shard in time. His expression darkened:  _a bad omen._ Not only is it bad luck to spill your wine, as the Romans have said, but in Liszt's mind, the shattered glass had heightened the chance of disaster.

He knew that it was ridiculous to cry over spilt milk, or in this case, wine, but he couldn't help himself. His depression had reached an all new low. He hid his face in his hand, his elbow on the piano, trying to poise himself. He knew this was ridiculous, he knew that it was, but maybe he needed to find an excuse to be sad. He could never bring himself to tell people the real reason, because he thought that it would lower his peers’ reputation of him, or worse, they would criticize and chastise him while he was already down.

 _"Please, God,"_ He whispered to himself,  _"I just want to die."_ He couldn't even bear the thought of living anymore. He just wanted to drink himself away, never to wake up, never to see the light of day... The heinous light of the sun, which painfully shone on him, never allowing him the eternal rest that he so desperately needed. He walked over to the kitchen, his eyes now burning, and grabbed the bottle of absinthe. He didn't even bother to get a glass.  _What was the point?_ He walked over to the couch, slumped himself down, and vigorously started drinking, slowly feeling himself go tipsy, with a euphoric feeling. He smiled at it; smiled with glazed eyes.

His mind started to slip; his body going heavy and light. He let his eye lids fall, just letting himself go relaxed. That's when he heard the clank of a bottle. Green eyes shot open, darting towards the coffee table, just to catch a glimpse of what had just happened. That's when the old man had seen the back of a standing gentleman, seemingly holding the bottle in his left hand, studying it. He was short in stature, and his short hair had quite a light brown color to it. This man, even from behind, seemed so familiar and unfamiliar to the Hungarian. Liszt squinted in his drunken confusion when he saw the said man shaking his head in disappointment. 

 _"Why are you drinking this?"_ The voice asked, stern and worried,  _"This is dangerous."_

"I..." Liszt slurred, "I just need..." He couldn't even bring himself to finish his sentence. If asked to, he doubted that he would be able to count to three. That's when the man turned around; two faces finally meeting. Liszt almost choked on his surprise when he saw the very figure, the very face of Wagner, standing before him. He had such a young appearance... Probably in his twenties. Those flashing blue eyes had driven through the seated man's soul. The bottle disappeared from his hands, as he had taken a seat next to his living lover. He examined him, before starting once again.

 _"Franz,"_ Wagner placed a concerned hand on Liszt's lap,  _"This needs to stop. You can do that... Right? For me?"_ How could the old man refuse a request like that? But, his mind slipped once more.

"What do you want me to stop?" He questioned, clearly still fogged and confused.

 _"I'm waiting for you, Franz, and I miss you so much... But, it's not your time to come, yet."_ A ghastly hand had cupped the Hungarian's cheek, the physical one almost reacting to this touch. The German leaned forward, and pressed his lips against his. 

Liszt didn't care if there was no feeling; he didn't care if this was truly his spirit, or a drunken hallucination; all what he cared about was the satisfaction of seeing this dear man again. His heart had beaten a million miles a minute, his bosom burning, making it hard to even speak. They parted, Wagner standing up.

 _"Don't worry,"_ He sadly gazed at him,  _"Death will soon hold you in her arms, and carry you to me."_

That's when his figure had disappeared, light suddenly shining into the room. Liszt put his hand to his eyes, squinting, then holding his head, as a massive headache had commenced. He looked down and saw the bottle of absinthe shattered on the floor. Looking around, he had seen that it was already day. It had come quite quickly. He glanced around, and just laid down once more... Fatigue overcoming him again. 

_He closed his eyes, hoping to never open them again._

 

 


End file.
